Where to begin ...
Nicholas Cage gives a crazed, over the top performance in Werner Herzog film.
A cop with no morals or check switch.
The group I watched this with hated it.
As for me, I have mixed feelings.
With Val Kilmer, Brad Dourif, Eva Mendes, and Xzibit, this should have been better than a television knockoff.
Cage's character pops more drugs than Mötley Crüe, with less consequences.
For local color, Herzog did some point of view shots from the back of an alligator, later an iguana.
Plastic alligators.
If you view this as a parody of police procedurals, you may like this better.

Slovenian philosopher, psychoanalyst Slavoj Žižek gives three lectures which orbit Film Appreciation 101.
Freudian analysis, obsessions, death, desire, phallus / vagina (fear - envy - worship), all probed.
Scenes from a diverse array of films are shown, followed by comments.
Žižek frequently inserts himself into scenes, exaggerating or undercutting concepts of reality or suspension of disbelief.
Mainstream studio fare as well as European arthouse used as examples:
Hitchcock - Lynch - Chaplin - Wachowski - Kubrick - Coppola
Tarkovsky - Haneke - Von Trier - Kieślowski - Eisenstein - Bergman
Observations and conclusions are, by turn, insightful, provocative, wrong-headed.
Those with a healthy resume of arthouse titles in their “seen that” list may be better able to agree with some of his theories, or hurl a sock at the screen.
For novices or aficionados, Žižek is entertaining and enthusiastic throughout.

What the hell was that?
Oh, a Jim Jarmusch film. No wonder it was incomprehensible.
Hitman Isaach De Bankole journeys across southern Spain,
and receives instructions from quirky messengers along the way.
Target is shrouded, as are the reasons. Narrative glides between literal and allegory.
Tilda Swinton, John Hurt, Bill Murray and Paz de la Huerta play bit parts.
The scenery was great, moving from Madrid to Sevilla into the Andalusian countryside.
Pace never picks up, and viewers are given few clues, though that is part of the charm of a Jarmusch film, or reasons for annoyance towards his oeuvre.

Fifteen years after the sixth girl disappeared, another one vanishes.
The serial killer has resurfaced.
Not that murders are confirmed, for no bodies have ever been found.
Families, exhausted by despair, suspect the cold case detective is way over his limit.

Six part French mystery of forgotten victims and an officer who pushes himself to madness.
Directions shift throughout, rather like a lost car tackling meandering intersections.
Character study of driven individual fighting apathy, resignation and suspicion.

Cautionary tale of interfering with Nature, co-starring and co-produced by those acclaimed thespians
Debbie Gibson and Tiffany.
Quite awful CGI alligators and pythons, both the size of buildings, chomp it out.
Speaking of size, Tiffany put on a couple of pounds, most in the cleavage midfield.
When she appears, the camera seems drawn in by gravity.
Ex Monkee Mickey Dolenz shows up as ex Monkee Mickey Dolenz.
Viewers should also be forewarned of a couple of songs by our leads.

Note - At the counter, I excitedly waved this winner at the staff.
No one had heard of either Debbie or Tiffany.
Another "you're getting old" moment.

Korean drama about revenge.
Not the implacable, unstoppable, self-righteous vengeance of 99% of plots.
No, this factors the wages of revenge, the toll it takes on conscience, karma, and those around you.
Matching tarot cards are sent to police and victim, and the police hustle to identify and protect victim.
Luckily, a girl who works in a fortune parlor can explain what each card means - may not mean - plus, she is psychic!
Meandering puzzle plot that widens considerably midway, then tightens with little room for escape, as well as justifications for murders.
Exteriors appeared shot during spring as colours were often breathtaking.
Interiors more hit n miss, about the third of interiors rivaled cheap soap opera sets.
Romance elements, not too terrible.

Solid B-film Noir with Dick Powell, William Conrad, Rhonda Fleming.
Lifer Powell released from the big house after five years.
He was the driver in a robbery, but caught the rap for the actual job.
Once out, he starts kicking the big dogs, demanding half the dough for his trouble.
The plot sours.
Film packed with hard men, fast broads, and dialogue drenched in acid.
Brisk 79 minutes.

Narrow bio-pic of philosopher, focusing on her New Yorker essays on the Eichman trial.
Her opinion opted that Eichman was a mere functionary of the Nazis. At once, a non-thinking paper pusher, as well as the necessary machinery involved in the Holocaust.
Howls of protest erupted, as victims preferred a face of pure evil.
Her thoughts regarding the culpability of Jewish leaders in Europe bearing responsibility for their part in cooperation brought even more fury.
Friends abandoned her, school administrators attempted to curtail her classes, a Mossad unit “visited.”
Quiet, chilling film. Subtitles are a must, as dialogue shifts from English to German to Hebrew.

Harrowing character study, with Mads Mikkelsen as kindergarten teacher.
After a five year old tells that he showed his erection, his life is royally and totally frakked.
Barring a miracle, there is no way a blot like that will ever wash clean.
Everyone in the village turns against him. Though it never said why, one suspects he could not leave while police investigations were ongoing. So he lived amidst escalating resentment, fear and hatred.
Almost to a soul, everyone took the child’s story as gospel.
This gets really ugly.

Spoiler

I saw this happen first hand, when a regular customer of the store where I worked was accused by a twelve year old. He was a math teacher, and completely exonerated.
Transpired the student launched accusations after being displeased with poor grades.
The man was released by the school, the district would not employ him, he could not find work within 100 miles.
He eventually relocated across the country.

Couple years later, a rep from the school district visited the music store.
District honchos had heard there were five guys with BA degrees in Art, English, and History, toiling for budget wages.
The district was desperate for male, “role model” teachers.
Despite financial proposals that were quadruple our meager record store salary, we all refused.
Citing how every single year, it seemed some poor male teacher was accused, cleared, yet ruined.
The stench of accusal, especially related to children, never disappears.